


if i could live in third person

by librarby



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Derealization, Dissociation, I CANT READ, M/M, No Beta or Editing We Die Like Men, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), i wrote this entirely while intoxiacated so im sorry if there are spellign errors, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:40:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26742271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarby/pseuds/librarby
Summary: Again, it’s not a particularly interesting wall, but Jon has stared at it for two hours, and the two hours have fallen through his fingertips yet again, and that is the only thing that scares him anymore. He doesn’t like it, the not-being-here, the not-knowing-where-he-is, the not-knowing-who-he-is. Even before knowing (Knowing) about the Spiral, he remembers sitting in his uni dorm room and wondering why he felt like he was out of his body, slightly to the left.[title from love, me normally by will wood]
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 15
Kudos: 103





	if i could live in third person

Jon stares at the wall. Jon has been staring at the wall for a while, maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour. It’s often hard to tell. 

It’s hard to tell how long time has been passing him by, how long he’s been lying here in their shared bed, staring at the wall. 

The clock is a lie. It shines red at him, blinking the numbers 10:05 PM. But that cannot be right, because Jon laid down at 8:00 PM and he could not have stared at the wall for two hours. He just can’t. But he has, and it is, so he just stares at the wall some more. 

The wall isn’t particularly interesting, just faded birch with some warping and a few knots in the wood. Nothing that’s worth staring at for two hours, but sometimes he finds he doesn’t realize the time has passed until it’s gone. 

He sits up and puts his head in his hands. 

Jon is tired. Jon is tired and Jon isn’t sure what day it is and Jon isn’t quite sure how he spent two hours staring at the wall. 

Again, it’s not a particularly interesting wall, but he has stared at it for two hours, and the two hours have fallen through his fingertips yet again, and that is the only thing that scares him anymore. He doesn’t like it, the not-being-here, the not-knowing-where-he-is, the not-knowing-who-he-is. Even before knowing (Knowing) about the Spiral, he remembers sitting in his uni dorm room and wondering why he felt like he was out of his body, slightly to the left.

Martin walks in. Martin walks in and he’s there, in the room with Jon. He’s in the room with Jon but he’s separated by this glass pane that sits between them. Sometimes Jon is afraid if he reaches out to touch Martin’s face, he’ll just run into the glass and everything will shatter around him.

Martin reaches out instead, putting a hand against his face. Jon closes his eyes, feeling the weight of hand against cheek, hand against face, hand against self. It’s grounding, something that brings him back into this body that he supposedly inhabits. 

Jon says Martin’s name quietly, feeling the way his mouth forms his name, somehow independent of him, but controlled by him, but something other than him. 

In response, Martin just strokes his thumb across his face, looking at him in that way that makes him feel like maybe, _maybe_ he’s worth something in this world. That maybe he’s someone who’s worth looking at. 

That maybe Martin thinks he’s someone worth looking at.

The way Martin says his name is quiet, a soft thing that starts in his throat and makes its way down to his chest. Jon looks, because that’s all he does now, is _look._ Martin is here, in the room with him, and his hand is on his cheek, so he must be here, and they must be here, together.

They’re together. 

Jon asks what day it is. It feels like a Friday, should be a Friday. Martin says that it’s Wednesday and that makes a knot form in Jon’s stomach. 

(Martin doesn’t lie to him, _wouldn’t_ lie to him.)

(Martin wouldn’t lie to him, so it must be Wednesday, even if it should be Friday. Even if it is Friday, it's Wednesday.)

“Wednesday,” He repeats, wrapping a hand around Martin’s wrist. It’s solid under his fingers, a thing that’s very real in this world, something he can feel; even if it still feels like he’s watching through a movie screen, feeling through someone else’s hand. 

In return, Martin smiles. 

(What Jon would not do for that smile. The things he would do, the places he would go, the parts of himself he would give or take away or destroy completely—)

Martin smiles and Jon smiles back. 

“Is it happening again?” Martin asks, still quiet, as though it’s early in the morning instead of late at night. It's the same voice he uses when they've just woken up, and Jon again asks him the date because he doesn't know, because he never knows. 

(Even though he can Know, it doesn't stop the terror that settles in his chest when he realizes he doesn't know where or when he is.)

Jon pulls a deep breath into his chest before answering. “Yes.” He says. He means to say more, but he isn’t entirely sure what to say after. 

He’s never been good with that, the whole explaining aspect. To understand Jonathan Sims, sometimes it feels as though you’d have to crawl inside his body and feel around just to find out. Words die on his tongue as soon as he thinks of them and the ink of his pen never seems to truly capture what happens when he’s sitting or lying or standing just beside himself. Watching himself through someone else’s eyes, eyes that are his own but don’t belong to him. 

“Okay.” Martin says, thumb still stroking circles into his skin. The pressure is too light, and Jon instinctively presses into it, willing it to be stronger. Thankfully, Martin seems to understand, pushing harder against his face as he starts to map out his jawline and the bridge of his nose and the space between his eyebrows. Grounding him, reminding him that he is here, sitting inside his skeleton with Martin at his side. 

Jon is fairly certain he remembers what he looks like. What those spots on his face that Martin seems so intrigued by look like, how they would appear to him if he looked in the mirror. 

(He knows sometimes Martin cannot see himself in the mirror, cannot see through the fog that obfuscates his view. 

He does not tell Martin that he feels the same, though he can stare directly at himself in the glass. It’s not the same, he claims to himself late at night while he looks up at the ceiling. It’s not the same because he can see himself but doesn’t see himself. 

It’s not Martin’s place to worry anyway. He doesn’t want him to worry—he’s done that enough.)

“Anything I can do to help?” Martin is speaking again. Jon squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment, blocking out the bright light and colors for just a moment, before opening them again and looking up at Martin. 

“Just be here, please. With me.” Jon manages to say, finally words that he knows are his. With words that he knows come from himself, not from this body and not from elsewhere—from him and him alone. 

Martin traces a finger along his cheekbone in response. 

The glass does not shatter. 

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello find me on tumblr @ jonbinary. i appreciate any and all comments/kudos, you all sustain my lifeforce in ways that you arent even aware of.


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